


Touch

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Frottage, Hurt Sam Winchester, Kidnapping, Lots of kissing, M/M, Preseries, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam is sixteen Dean is twenty, Touch-Starved Sam Winchester, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets kidnapped and isn't touched for weeks. When Dean finally gets him back, all Sam wants to do is touch, touch, touch. He wants to touch more than brothers should. Hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATH <3

It's two weeks, one day, nineteen hours, and twenty-six minutes of fruitless, desperate searching before they finally find Sam.

"Oh my god," Dean croaks, and almost falls to his knees. "Oh my god, Dad, he's here. He's here."

Dean hears his father swear and scrabble through the mess, pushing past boxes and broken toys and shards of glass, but he can't take his eyes off of Sam. A corner of the basement has been cleared out to make room for a dog cage, and inside the cage is Dean's very own little brother, chained to the wall with an iron collar, curled up and facing the wall. Dean can't see his face, he's covered in bruises, and all of his ribs are poking out, but Dean would know him anywhere. He'd had a feeling about this house, almost like he could smell Sam before he even saw him. He's always had a Sam-sense, an awareness of his baby brother that goes beyond the traditional five senses.

John shoves past Dean and barks some order at him but Dean isn't listening. He's staring at Sam, who's begun to shiver and shudder, and he's only in boxers, and Dean hates himself for losing sight of him, for not seeing the guy coming all those weeks ago.

Dean watches as Dad wastes no time in picking the lock of the collar around Sam, hunched in the cage over him. Sam starts to fight, injured-bird-weakly, and John touches his shoulder and murmurs something low and sweet, and Sam just goes limp. John hefts Sam up and carries him like a baby.

The sight shakes Dean. Sam's sixteen, he's lanky, but he's heading toward strapping, and there's less than an inch between them now, where Sam used to have to crain his neck and stand on chairs. He'd been nostalgic but proud to see Sam grow up, his tiny scrap of a rebellious streak turning into a man.

But whatever happened to Sam wiped all his progress away. He probably hadn't moved an inch in two whole weeks. How much had he eaten? How did he survive? What fucking  _happened_  to him?

John moves past him and barrels up the stairs and Dean is more than happy to leave the rank, nightmare-fuel basement. He stares at Sam's twigs of legs as he follows Dad up, how they bounce limpy with each step of John's, how one leg is more black than tanned.

The guy they're looking for pops out from God-knows-where at the top of the stairs and he's got a fucking knife, christ, but John just adjusts Sam in his arms and pulls a gun from another-God-knows-where and fires, getting the bastard right between the eyes. Dean doesn't even twitch. The guy drops like lead. There's a new red coat of paint on the walls behind him. The cops're gonna be here soon, asking questions, so they haul ass and are back on the highway in less than ten minutes.

Dean doesn't start thinking again until they've been driving for around an hour. He's in the back seat and Sam's in his arms, sleeping and silent. "Dad," he says. He clears his throat and tries again after the words die. "Hey, Dad."

John grunts, goes a little faster.

"I know we're not outta Dodge, but I think we gotta stop, please. Sam, he's. He's not all right, he needs a bed and some food." Dean knows how thin his voice is, how he's begging, but for Sam, he'd do anything. Fuck pride.

John sighs. "Next exit, then."

Dean lets out the breath he was holding. "Thank you, sir."

John waves him off. "For Sam," he says brusquely, and he doesn't need to finish his sentence. Dean knows.

Anything for Sam.

Turns out they have to drive for awhile longer until they hit an exit with gas, food, and shelter. John fills up the car faster than an Olympic track runner, and he lets Dean check into the motel while he gets food, just in case Sam wakes up.

 _God._  Just in case. Sam should be all spry right now, bouncing off the walls, hungry all the time, and annoyingly moody. Instead he's out in the car, probably close to comatose, and he's all Dean can think about while he gets the key from the crabby old lady behind the front desk. It takes him less than five minutes to get all their shit into the room, and then he's opening the back door and staring down at the curled-up kid on the seat.

Dean bites his lip. He's afraid if he touches Sam, he'll shatter. Sam mewls in his sleep and does this full-body tremor thing, like a goddamn kitten in the cold, and Dean's decision is made for him. He bends into the car and scoops Sam into his arms, handing him slowly and carefully like he's broken pieces of a marionette. Sam's head lolls on his shoulder, and Dean puts his chin on his hair and breathes in deep. Holding Sam like this, the smell of him faint but identifiable, is so familiar to Dean, but the circumstances are so much worse and Sam's not a baby anymore. He's all grown up and he should be way too fucking heavy but he's not and Dean doesn't know if he's okay. Fuck.

Dean's certain that there's one thing that hasn't changed. He's gonna protect Sam no matter what. He's gonna make Sam whole again.

He acts like the ground is covered in thin ice as he makes his way to the open motel room door, stepping slowly as to not jostle Sam. Once he's inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and sets Sam down on the closest bed.

John comes back while he's stitching up some cuts on Sam's shoulder. Dean doesn't look up, but he can smell the takeout his dad is toting.

"Any better?" John asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Hasn't woken up yet."

John sighs. "You hungry, then?"

"No."

John drops the food on the little kitchenette table. "Come eat something, Dean."

Dean wants to refuse, but instead he ties off the end of the stitching and covers the injury in a pristine, white bandage. He sets down the needle and gets Sam into pajama pants and a t-shirt. He lopes over to his dad. They eat in silence for awhile before John puts some leftovers in the mini-fridge for Sam. He steps over to the door.

"I'll always be right next door."

Dean flicks his eyes up to him. "I know."

"You knock on the wall the moment he wakes up. I want to make sure my son is okay."

Dean feels his eyes watering a little. If Sam could see the sag in Dad's shoulders, the dullness of his eyes, maybe they wouldn't butt heads so damn often anymore. Maybe they'd be more like a family, more like a team. Maybe Sam would stop picking up college pamphlets at school.

"Dean?"

Dean startles. He smiles thinly at his dad and nods. "Of course."

John nods, lingers in the doorway for another moment. "You should get some sleep too, Dean."

Dean says something in assent, and John leaves. It's all just going through the motions, though. Both of them know Dean will stay up all night, keeping vigil at Sam's side.

He's sitting on the edge of Sam's bed before the door has even fully swung shut. He takes Sam's hand in his own, careful of the one broken finger he put in a makeshift splint. "You wanna wake up?" he croaks, leaning forward and brushing shiny, oily bangs away from Sam's forehead.

Sam's brows scrunch together and he makes a little noise, turning his head toward Dean's palm. Dean's heart stutters in his chest, and he lets Sam lean his face into Dean's hand. The lines in Sam's forehead disappear and Sam's eyelids flutter weakly in his sleep.

"I gotcha, Sammy," Dean whispers, and he lifts Sam up and settles him on the side of the bed, making room so he can sit next to his brother. He keeps one hand in Sam's hair and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, focusing on his breathing and matching it with Sam's.

As exhausted as he is after weeks of little sleep, he doesn't let himself slip into unconsciousness. He made Sam a promise, that first day he held him in his arms, and he intends to keep it.

***

At first, Dean doesn't know what wakes him up.  His eyes are heavy when he blinks, and he freezes mid-yawn when guilt surges through him like oil on water. He shouldn't have slept. He should've kept watch over his little brother. He looks around, letting his eyes adjust. The parking lot outside the window is dusted in dim blue light, the horizon starting to come alive with pinks and oranges. He checks the clock on the nightstand. It's around five in the morning, and something's squeezing his hand.

He looks down. Sam's fingers are hooked around all of his, and Sam's nails are digging into Dean's skin and leaving little pink marks. In the silence of the early morning world, he hears Sam's breaths, and they're uneven and gasping, and fuck,  _Sam's awake._

"Sammy?!" Dean barks, slipping off the bed to kneel at its side so he's eye-level with Sam. "Sam, you okay?"

"Dean?" Sam whispers, and his voice is higher than Dean remembers.

Dean swallows past a brick lodged in his throat. "Yeah, it's me."

Sam whimpers. "I'm out? I'm out? I'm out?"

Dean squeezes Sam's hand back. "Yeah, we got you out. Shit, Dad's gonna wanna know you're up-"

"No!" Sam barks, but shrinks back into the pillow. "No, can it just-- can it just be you right now? Please?"

Dean nods his head vigorously. "Yeah, sure, yeah, whatever you want, Sammy."

Sam sighs shakily. "Thanks."

Dean's heart is aching in his chest. "No problem." He gets back up onto the bed, and Sam shuffles closer, their bodies touching in a warm line. He hisses as he moves, and Dean wraps an arm around him, murmuring little comforting sounds as Sam tries to find a way to sit up that doesn't hurt. After awhile, he finally relaxes, leaning heavily against Dean. Dean reaches for the remote and turns on some shitty spy flick, the volume low.

They watch for awhile in silence, Sam's head on Dean's shoulder, the birds outside making the first calls of the day. Sam puts a hand on Dean's stomach, and Dean doesn't mention it.

Dean tries to hold back, tries to give Sam some space, but he has to know. "Sam... can I ask you something?"

He can feel Sam stiffen. "S'About what happened?"

Dean frowns. "Yeah."

Sam cuddles a little closer, moving like an arthritic old man. "Should probably talk about it. They say it's therapeutic."

Dean lets out a breath. "If it ever freaks you out-"

"M'not glass, Dean."

"Right. Right. Right. Yeah, I know. I just..." Dean trails off, his skin feeling itchy. He can't get the sight of the fucking guy out of his head, in plaid boxers and a wifebeater, balding and beer-gutted and he even had the fucking  _mustache--_

"He didn't touch me," Sam whispers, and Dean can't breathe.

"He tried," Sam says, and his voice is thick and tremulous. "He tried, once, he took my clothes off... but I fought. He punshied me for that, beat me. I think-- I think if you guys hadn't gotten here, he would've tried again. And he wouldn't've stopped. He didn't think you'd save me."

"Of course I would," Dean growls, his blood boiling, and he fantasizes about castrating the piece of shit who made Sam small. He tightens his grip on his brother. "No chance in hell we weren't gonna save you."

"I know," Sam mumbles, and he sniffles. "Trust me. But one more day, and I don't know Dean. I don't wanna think about it. The way he'd look at me... god."

"Then don't think about it," Dean orders, running his hand up and down Sam's side. "I patched you up, didn't I? You're safe now. And he's fucking dead, kiddo. Dad shot him in the fucking head."

Sam's silent for a moment. "Good," he squeaks.

Dean praises himself for exerting amazing self-control, but he's done with that now. He's done with it all. He just wants Sam, breathing, in his arms.

So he moves. He shifts and wraps his arms around Sam, presses his hands into Sam's back and holds Sam to his chest, pressing his nose into the spot where Sam's neck meets his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, tightening his grip on Sam. Sam sobs once and his arms slither up and around Dean, too, his fingers curling in the material of Dean's shirt.

They stay like that for awhile, holding each other, until both of Dean's legs are asleep under Sam's. Sam lifts his head up, and Dean can feel that his shirt is wet where Sam's face was pressed up against it. Sam smiles at him with red eyes, and Dean smiles back, rubbing his hands up and down Sam's back.

Sam keeps staring at him, like he's making sure he's real or he's memorizing his face, but his head keeps bobbing, his eyes blinking slower and slower, like a sleep-deprived owl. Dean curls a palm around Sam's cheek and watches how Sam's eyes close at the feeling. He pats Sam's face. "You need sleep," he says in a tone that means business.

Sam huffs, but he lets himself be handled and levered back down under the covers. Dean checks his bandages before standing, his knees cracking. He yanks the covers back on the other bed, the feeling of eyes on him niggling at the back of his neck.

"Dean?" Sam pipes up in a small voice.

He turns and regards his brother. "Yeah?"

"Can you, um..." He can see the flush on Sam's face even in the low lighting. "Please, I wasn't touched for weeks, can you just... come here? Just for now?"

"Glad you asked," Dean says, and Sam smiles softly. "Call me paranoid, but I was gonna go crazy over there."

Sam says nothing, only burrows further under the covers and closes his eyes. Dean slides in beside him, and pulls Sam close, hugging him tightly. Sam moans, and Dean loosens his arms, wondering where he could've hurt him, but Sam reaches behind himself and pushes Dean's arms back around him.

"No, I'm sorry, just... please keep holding me. I'm sorry. Please."

Dean complies at once. "You don't have to apologize," he says gruffly, and for the billionth time he wishes he could ressurect that fucking pervert just to kill him again, but slowly this time.

Sam nuzzles Dean's collarbone. "Don't ever let go," he says after a moment, his lips brushing against Dean's skin.

Dean nods with a thick throat. His body feels overheated but he'd rather die than leave Sam. "I wont," he promises. "Anything you want, you got it. No matter what."

Sam makes a little injured animal noise and shifts. "Thank you," he chokes out, his arms curling around Dean's waist. "I forgot what it was like to be touched like this."

"I'll remind you," Dean says softly, slipping his hands under Sam's shirt and rubbing his skin, skimming lightly over the bandages and caressing the few areas that aren't purple and blue. Sam shudders again, and sighs, slipping his leg in between both of Dean's. All the blankets and body heat is making Dean flushed, and Sam's starting to sweat, but it's obvious neither of them have any plans to move.

"Dean," Sam whimpers, his fingers flexing at Dean's shoulderblades, "touch me more, please."

Dean sorta feels like more is impossible, but he'd hate himself if he denied Sam anything now. "Take your shirt off," he murmurs, and to his surprise, Sam doesn't hesitate. He doesn't get far before he gasps, freezing up, and Dean presses Sam into the bed, kneeling over him as he slowly maneuvers the shirt out of Sam's arms and over his head. He quickly strips out of his own shirt, and he doesn't miss how Sam's eyes skate down his chest before Sam turns away, blushing.

Did he--? _Christ_. Dean shouldn't find that so weird. Sam has been left alone in the dark for weeks, beaten and eyed up, of course he'd want to see Dean. Dean wants to see Sam. It's no different. He gets back into bed, turning on his side. Sam turns toward him and shuffles close, and then their torsos are touching, skin-to-skin, and Sam makes a little pleased sound, pressing his nose back against Dean's shoulder.

And then Sam starts kissing wet little patterns in Dean's skin, and the warmth is heading lower and lower in Dean's body, and he leans back, petting Sam's hair. He clears his throat. "Sammy..."

"I missed you so much," Sam keens, instantly taking back the microscopic space Dean had put between them. "All I could think about was you, what you were doing, that you'd come and get me."

"And I did," Dean says roughly, and he has no idea what the hell is happening right now. "I got you."

"You have me," Sam agrees, and he resumes his kisses.

Dean twitches, but he finds himself leaning into Sam, into his mouth, into the calloused hand bumping fingers across his side like he's a piano and Sam is playing a concerto. He swallows.

Sam moves up against him, and then he does it again, and it takes Dean well over a minute to realize Sam is grinding up against him, or humping him, or something, all Dean knows is that he keeps doing it and something hard is pressing into his thigh.

He breathes out, his eyes wide as he stares at the wall over Sam's head. "Sam, what..."

"I just want you," Sam growls, accentuating each word. "I want to forget about him and I want to touch you."

"Sam, what?" Dean asks again, unable to formulate another sentence, grabbing Sam's chin with his thumb and forcing eye contact.

Sam leans his head down into his hand.  _He's like a cat,_  Dean thinks.

"Who cares about anyone else?" Sam counters, jutting his shin, his fox-slant eyes glaring up at Dean. "I don't ever want to touch anyone else in my life ever again. I don't want to be touched by anyone else ever again. Only you."

"You got hurt," Dean protests thickly, "you're hurt, that's why you're saying this."

"Maybe it's part of it," Sam whispers, and he kisses Dean's neck. "But not all of it."

Dean whimpers, but he pushes his hands up against Sam's face, tilts his head, and kisses him on the lips. Sam freezes at first, and then his innocence shows through when he fumbles a little, and theres too much teeth.  _God, he's only sixteen_. Dean pulls back, licking the saliva off his lips. "Just let me do the work," he says, and Sam's face is red. He nods.

He kisses Sam again, nudges his mouth open with his lips. He bites Sam's bottom lip, sneaks a little tongue into Sam's mouth. Sam gets the hang of it eventually, kissing back and sucking on Dean's tongue, suckling on it, more like, and Dean's never been harder in his life.

He pushes Sam back and meets his eye. "Slow," he demands. "I'm taking care of you, I don't want to hurt you,  _slow._ "

Sam smiles softly and flicks Dean's lip with his finger. "Touch me."

Dean pushes Sam down into the pillow and climbs over him. He kisses him deeply, pushing him further down into the bed. The first orange beams of sunlight turn Sam's eyes into whiskey, into leaves in the fall, into a rainbow of soft colors. He pets Sam as he kisses him, starting at his face, dusting across his shoulderblades, rubbing up and down his sides.  _He’s got such slim hips_ , Dean notes,  _like a girl’s_. Sam shudders and arches up into the touches, sighing into Dean's mouth, his fingers bumping against Dean's spine.

"More," Sam pants when they break apart, "I want you everywhere."

Dean moans, dropping his head to briefly mouth at Sam's shoulder. "After this you eat and sleep," he barks, trying to get the image of Sam laid out bare for him out of his head.

Sam laughs, and Dean thanks god for the sound. "Deal."

Dean kisses him again, and keeps kissing him, distracting him as his hands move lower and lower, brushing and tracing over every inch and curve of Sam's body, lightly playing over bruises and scars to make Sam shiver and jolt. 

Sam slips out of his pajamas and boxers so gracefully, so fluidly, Dean doesn't even realize it's happened at first until the wet tip of Sam's dick brushes against his own happy trail, and he stops, looking down at Sam with wide eyes.

"It's okay," Sam murmurs. "I know-- I know this is weird. Just. Want you, Dean."

And well, didn't Dean say he'd never refuse Sam anything?

He silently strips down, hovering over Sam, and Sam's eyes are big and dark as he watches Dean's hands move with rapt fervor. He licks his lips when he sees Dean’s dick, thick and red.

"Do you want this?" Sam whispers. "Don't do it just for me, please."

Dean scoffs. He pets the hair curling at the base of Sam's sex. He’s got an odd mixture of surprise, jealousy, and pride mixing around inside him when he notes that Sam is longer than him, all thin and pink and shit, Dean’s so fucked.

"Said I'd always take care of you," he replies, gruff, his throat welling with a thousand strange, indescribable emotions. All at once, this seems so new and foreign, but familiar, too, something between them that makes sense. It pulls his heart in multiple different directions.

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean doesn't want to cry tonight, not again, no way, so he shuts Sam up with a gentle kiss, and curls his fingers around Sam's cock.

Sam starts, his mouth opening up in an "O" under Dean's lips. Dean moves his hand up and down the length of Sam, using the wetness beading at the head to smooth his way. He presses his hips against Sam's, and takes both of them in his hand.

"Hold on tight," he murmurs against Sam's mouth. "Gonna touch you all over."

Sam's arms move up and curl around the broad part of his back. Dean does an experimental thrust, tugging them harder, moving his hand in the way he knows he likes. There's enough slick between the two of them to make it easy going, a slip and slide of hot friction that has Sam biting off high-pitched noises. Dean's hips move of their own volition, and he strokes them faster, panting openly into Sam's mouth, too strung up with the buildup of an orgasm to coordinate an actual kiss.

Sam cries out when Dean plays with the nerves under the head of his cock, and Dean bites his neck, making a "shh" noise. "Don't forget about Dad," he grunts, "quiet down, Sammy."

He keeps moving, chasing the crazy, tightening feeling in his balls, feeling by the twitch and jerk of Sam's cock that he's just as close, maybe closer. Sam's nipping and biting at his shoulder, silencing his little slow moans with Dean's skin. They're both flushed and shiny with sweat now, the stink of sex thick around them, and Dean doesn't have time to give Sam a warning before his hips are juttering arrythmically, his warm come spilling all over Sam's chest.

Sam gasps and stills, his dick pulsing hotly in Dean's hand, and he comes, too, mumbling something about Dean's face when he came.

Dean is exhausted in every way he can think of, but he forces his body to grab his shirt off the ground. He wipes them off, using it to brush sweat off of Sam's forehead, too. He yanks the covers up over their shoulders so John won't see the bare skin. He tugs Sam back into his arms, holding him close, feeling his heart slow back down.

Sam's jaw moves against his skin as he yawns. "Good?" Sam asks sleepily.

Dean swats him lightly on the back. "Yeah," he says, "I'm, uh. Yeah."

He can feel Sam smile. "Like to feel you."

Dean's heart swells, and he chuckles, keeping a hand on the back of Sam's neck in a way he knows puts Sam right to sleep. "Me too," he says, stretching his toes. He could do with some sleep, too. He knows nothing would come between them, that nothing would ever make it past the door. Sam is safe in his arms. Sam is small, but he's strong, and they're touching, and this has been the weirdest damn day of Dean's life but he thinks they'll be okay.

Maybe Sam will wake up and regret everything. Maybe he was so touch-starved he'd take anything. Maybe his brain was addled. Or maybe he'll sneak into Dean's bed again, and touch him, and they'll be playing a real fucking dangerous game of cat and mouse, with their Dad right there. Maybe Dean should've said no. Maybe he will, in the future. Maybe Sam will leave. Dean doesn't know, and it scares him, but for right now, he's got Sam in his arms.

And that's all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated <3


End file.
